Clean the Blood from These Streets
by Agnes Stewart
Summary: Cosette and Marius visit in the aftermath of the barricade. "That was the last time he saw Enjolras, the martyr, the marble statue, Apollo, the angel of the revolution." Please read and review.


The streets ran red with blood as Marius hobbled towards the café, Cosette holding tightly to his arm. The women looked up as he passed, bowing their heads to the revolutionary, the red cloth clutched in their boney hands, before continuing to sop up the blood. Marius and Cosette stepped into the small warehouse, and the woman clapped a hand over her mouth to see them lined up in a row. "Marius…" she whispered, but he stepped forward and she followed, her grip going limp on his arm.

"That was Jehan," he said quietly. "A poet… He wrote a poem for you."

"H-he did?" Cosette questioned, her voice catching as she looked into the man's now lifeless eyes. "I'm sure it was lovely."

"It was," Marius muttered, before going forward. "Courfeyrac." He glanced at Cosette weakly, and she hurried towards him.

"Dear Marius, you mustn't put yourself through this," she said, entwining their fingers. She looked down at the young man, her eyes traveling over the fallen. Finally, they landed upon a young woman, a brown cap stuck over her dark hair. Éponine!" Cosette cried, rushing towards the body. "Oh, Éponine," she sobbed, kneeling besides the young woman. Her eyes landed on the familiar young boy beside her, his once hopeful eyes full of emptiness. "And Gavroche."

Marius nodded sadly, before starting towards her, leaning heavily against his cane. "You knew them?" the blonde woman asked. Marius nodded once again as Cosette leaned gently against his leg, tears streaming down her face.

"She was my best friend," he murmured, his voice breaking. "And Gavroche. Smartest little boy. Most devoted little boy."

Cosette wiped her eyes with her delicate fingers before leaning down to brush strands of hair from the siblings' faces. Marius extended a hand to her and she stood, the front of her blue dress stained with the dirt and the brilliant red of the blood. "Let's go," she said shakily.

The two exited the warehouse, their boots splashing sickeningly in the blood of the revolutionaries. The barricade remained, the wood burned and riddled with bullet holes, splattered blood. "They'll never clean the blood from these streets," Marius murmured, his eyes traveling upwards as his body stiffened against Cosette's arm.

"You surely don't mean that, Marius," she answered, as her gaze moved from the battered piano, to whatever he had fixed on. She gasped, her mouth opening and an inaudible shriek fleeing her lungs, escaping as an agonized squeak. "Who is that?" she whispered, looking up at the blonde-haired man with wide, pained eyes. He hung out the window, the red of the flag clutched in his hand echoing the red of his jacket and the blood staining his white shirt, neck, and the exterior walls of the café. His rosette was plainly visible, and he hung there proudly: an angel of the revolution.

"Enjolras," Marius said, before dropping to his knees, making ripples in the small pool of blood. "Our leader. Our noble leader."

Cosette knelt beside, looking up at the man as if he was a statue in a chapel and she was praying to him. "He was very brave," she said, leaning her head against Marius' shoulder. "I can tell."

"He was brave. He wanted to change the world. Why am I the one alive?"

"Hush," Cosette murmured. "You can't mean it. This world is cruel."

"Enjolras, dead?" Marius sobbed, his pained voice overlapping with Cosette's. "How can it be? Grantaire called him Apollo. Gods don't just die."

"Grantaire?" Cosette questioned, moving her eyes from the fallen leader to the face of her love.

"Yes," Marius said, looking down at the blood that stained the streets. "The cynic of the group. Didn't believe in anything."

"Nothing? That's impossible," the woman murmured, watching as Marius' hands swirled absent-mindedly in the red.

"He did believe in one thing," Marius spoke, wiping his hands on his trousers. "Enjolras." Grasping the cane, he laboriously stood, and Cosette alongside him. Turning to the woman soaking up the gore, he questioned, "Grantaire? Where is he? I didn't see him with the others."

A plump woman with dark hair tied back with a blue cloth answered, "He's still in the café. Haven't brought him down yet. He died at Enjolras' feet." She looked at the man with pity as he stumbled back, his eyes wide.

"Thank you," he murmured, as Cosette hooked arms with him.

"Marius, dear, let's go home," she whispered, and he nodded weakly, looking down at the blood soaking his boots. She curtsied slightly to the women, who nodded in return, before leading Marius back to the carriage. He climbed in and she got in afterwards, swinging the door shut.

The man leaned his head back against the seat, letting out deep breathes as Cosette rambled on extensively about dinner plans, trying to distract herself from the lost and lonely look in Éponine's eyes.

Marius looked out the window, tuning her out as he laid eyes once more on Enjolras', stretched out the window, his flag- the symbol of freedom- clutched in his hand. As the carriage rattled away, Marius didn't tear his eyes from Enjolras until a building blocked his view. That was the last time he saw Enjolras, the martyr, the marble statue, Apollo, the angel of the revolution.

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**A/N I just really wanted to contribute to the fandom. I hope you enjoyed it.**

**Please review.**


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